Central CA: Nipomo by the Sea

As long as I was taking the long way home, I thought I might as well visit my brother, Johnny, who was hosting a BBQ at the local bar. But first I had to make a stop at the traveler's mecca of strange - The Madonna Inn. I loved coming here as a child, with the profusion of giant pink pastries, and carousel bar.





Even something as simple as an iced tea to go gets a little touch of whimsy with a rock candy stirrer to sweeten the tea.



Their dining room is a trip, centered around a gigantic gold tree with Pepto-Bismol pink booths. I considered getting married here, but they were really uptight about noise and curfews so I knew that was not for my family.

The rooms are all themed, the "caveman room" being the most popular. There are a lot of rock-themed rooms. Some of them are just lime green from top to bottom. Seriously creepy. And the names are usually unrelated to the themes, which most often seem to be "made over basement" or "staying in Uncle Al's guest room in the basement"

Check out the rooms

These are a few of the most amazing ones

Blue much?

Seriously?

Do not take acid and stay in this room

For the 12-year old Brady in you

Krazy Daisy..the names are getting more appropriate

Just look at this ceiling

OK I can't stand it any more

They even have a little tiny bathroom especially for little girls. The boys bathroom has a trough, and another men's room has a waterfall.





I picked up a pastry for Johnny and headed over to the Nipomo Saloon. Yeah, this is the kind of town where you have the Nipomo barbershop, the Nipomo Foot Clinic, and Nipomo Sushi all in a row.



I arrived too late for the BBQ and missed out on Johnny's tri-tip. Luckily the Saloon is right across the street from Jocko's. Jocko's is the only reason some people even know Nipomo exists. The bartender called me in an order and when I got there I discovered a steak and garlic bread cut into little bites and stuck with frilly toothpicks like at a cocktail party. They were down with the saloon.





So I was also behind everyone on the drinking. Beer was flowing, a super loud ragtag band of sorts was playing, and the guy who points in the air was pointing.



Even when sitting he can't stop pointing. It's the rock and roll that does it. Or whatever's on tap.



It's pretty contagious



The golden sun looked beautiful on the hay. I know, I have a brother who lives where they sell hay! It must be in our blood. It just makes me want to point my fingers in the air!

The Magical Land of Nipomo

Here are a few more pictures from the trip that I really liked:

The First Thing You Learn is You Always Gotta Wait

Jocko's, a Nipomo institution since the 50s, is nestled between a picturesque chapel and a building that looks so much like a little red schoolhouse that I felt like we were wandering around in a model train village. Even with a reservation, the wait for a table averages between an hour to two hours on weekends. The best way to handle this is by hanging out in their historic bar. The building is reputed to have been a saloon in the 1890s. A long, sparkling clean mirror runs the length of the bar, and hunting trophies line the walls. Order appetizers right away and pretend that you have just come to hang out in the bar with your friends. If you think too much about when your name will finally be called, you will drive yourself insane. My brother, Johnny, who is a local, warns that Albert makes extremely strong drinks. It is so common for people to get unexpectedly wasted while waiting for a table, they call it "getting Albertized". Jocko's will also throw you out if you ask for A-1 steak sauce. I asked Johnny if he had andy more tips, and he said, "Yeah. Watch out for Albert."

Albert was not working last Saturday night when we met up with the Roguefood crew for dinner, so we were safe. It didn't occur to me to order appetizers until we had been there for awhile, so everyone was getting a little restless. You have to stand at the ready to grab a table or barstool the minute it is vacated. It can get pretty cut-throat.

Not a moment too soon, our table was ready. We were all charmed by Jocko's mascot which adorned the placemats and stickers - a cow with a naughty little secret. What kind of secret could this cow be hiding? Just as we were settling in, our appetizers arrived. The jalapeno poppers and fried mushrooms were standard bar fare, but the linguisa, barbecued to juicy perfection, was a thing of beauty. There was a nice relish tray on the table. The salads were your basic steakhouse salads. But they were just stalling for time. We were ready for some of the meat we had been eying on that giant grill.

The specialty of the house is the Spencer steak, which is a ribeye. Almost everyone at our table ordered that. Ed ordered the lamb shanks, and Rene, who was still feeling peckish, ordered ravioli from the Italian section of the menu. When the steaks arrived, everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed over their plates. The meats are all cooked over red oak on a Santa Maria BBQ grill, which Jocko's only fires up at dinnertime. Ed's lamb was expertly cooked, and delicious, but definitely had that lamb-y gaminess. All of the steaks are perfectly juicy, and nicely charred with just a hint of smoke. Central California has a number of cattle ranches, so I assume Jocko's must have a good relationship with a one to get such quality meats. My filet mignon was insane - about 4 to 5 inches thick, and one of the most tender filets I have ever had. Landmark 77 in Ventura may have to give up the title of "greatest steak in the world". I'll admit my picture of the filet is a little CSI, but really, look how thick it is.

I had to try Rene's ravioli, and was pleasantly surprised. Amazed even. You would expect something like that to be an afterthought, something thrown on the menu for the vegetarians, kids, and picky eaters. But it was better than in the finest Italian restaurant. The light pillows of cheese were flavorful, not lazily stuffed with plain ricotta, and the sauce was meaty and intensely seasoned. I encouraged everyone at the table to try some. They all reacted the same way, "Are you crazy? I should mess up my tastebuds with ravioli when I am dining on the greatest steak in the entire world?" But I insisted, and they were all amazed and delighted by the fantastic ravioli.

I barely put a dent in my steak, and asked for a doggie bag. I excused myself to powder my nose, and when I returned everyone had a little dish of ice cream in front of them, which came with the meal. I was surprised by the variety...chocolate, pistachio, spumoni...I asked the table, "How many flavors do they have?" To which they replied in unison, "All of them." I picked up my spoon, and everyone asked, "Aren't you going to take a picture?" Come on, it was just a dish of ice cream. But I gave in. OK, somehow photographing the food had become de rigeur and I could not eat anything until it had been properly documented. I had made my bed of crazy, and now I had to lie in it. I snapped a pic, and ate a few half-hearted spoonfuls of the melting chocolate ice cream.







Jocko's 125 North Thompson Avenue, Nipomo CA 93444 (805) 929-3565 Reservations required!

Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head

Saturday morning I woke up around 6am and went to the Nipomo swap meet with Johnny and Rene. In addition to scoring a set of fantastic 1970s beefcake playing cards and an album of creepy, turn-of-the-century photographs, I was able to check out some really cool installation art.

The swap meet land is owned by a doctor who has made a hobby out of decorating the place with scrap metal art and setting up a giant model train village. Rene wanted to show me the outer space installation that runs Star Wars movies on a little television screen in the wall. As we tripped on the milk crate "stairs" Johnny admitted, "It probably doesn't meet OSHA standards." We had Pastor tacos for breakfast from one of the many vendors. I order mine "con todo", in which "everything" usually means salsa, onions, and copious amounts of cilantro. The swap meet even had a truck selling Filipino food. I was sad that we were going to miss what promised to be a very surreal puppet show beside the Filipino lunch wagon, but we had a group of people waiting for us.

We picked up Bob, and discovered that one of Johnny's egg-laying Rhode Island Reds, Original Recipe, had gotten out. We had to wait for Johnny to catch it before we could meet the crew from Roguefood.com, one of the food forums in which I participate. We found Ed, Steve, Patti, and her husband Jeff waiting for us in the lobby of the Santa Maria Inn. I was pleased because I got to say, "Sorry we were late. One of the chickens got out." A friend of the family once told Johnny, "You know how I can tell you're a hillbilly? You have a chicken on the table and it's not dead yet."

Our plan for the day was to cruise along the main street, sampling BBQ from the many vendors that set up in parking lots on the weekends. Santa Maria's local specialty is barbecued tri-tip, cooked over oak. The meat is grilled on huge, specially designed barbecue wagons that are towed behind trucks on trailer hitches. The large grills hang directly over the open flames. The grills can be raised and lowered by cranking a large wheel, which enables you to control the heat.

As we caravaned down the road, we noticed a strange lack of BBQ wagons. It was like a ghost town. Ed was completely baffled. There was no tri-tip anywhere. We thought it might be due to the overcast weather. Or maybe the rapture. So we headed over to the annual IFOPA fundraiser, which was set up in a grocery store parking lot. The case of the missing BBQ wagons was solved. Over thirty local vendors had volunteered their time and barbecue grills to raise money on behalf of a local charity. Hundreds of split chickens smoked and sizzled on dozens of barbecue grills. Plumes of smoke filled the air, making the parking lot look like a battlefield in an old war movie. One grill was dedicated to toasting up French bread, and we drooled as we watched one of the volunteers dunk the halved loaves in melted butter and garlic. Rene and I caught ourselves staring and realized we were watching him like he was a stripper, "Yeah, baby! Dunk it!"

Most of their business was drive-up, and traffic was disrupted around the block as volunteers hurriedly handed chickens through car windows. We sat down at one of the empty picnic tables, and shared lunches since they were so large. Steve went to pick up a drumstick and pulled out only a bone, which had slid right out of the chicken. He said, "You call that meat tender?" The chicken was moist, and smoked right through. There was a nice rub on it with plenty of flavor but no heat. Probably a lot of paprika and garlic salt. The garlic bread was alright, and the pink Santa-Maria style beans were bland, as they are supposed to be.

Since all of the rogue tri-tip experts in town were busy making chicken, we headed over to Johnny's recommendation, Rancho Nipomo. It is conveniently attached to the Santa Maria Brewing Company, our next stop. Recently opened by husband and wife team, Richard and Brenda Cowell, Rancho Nipomo serves both barbecue and Mexican dishes. It advertises its special menu as "A taste of California". It is known amongst locals for its pulled pork sandwiches. So all of us were looking for barbecue. But Richard is extremely proud of his chile dishes, made with his own home-grown chiles. When he started pushing the chile verde, I asked him if he had a combo plate. He said, "No. But I've been thinking about it. I tell you what I'm going to do for you."

He lowered his voice, and we put our heads together conspiratorially.

He started describing his food in whispered detail, using subtle hand gestures like a French waiter, "OK, I'm going to make you a plate of the pork ribs and I recommend you get the small pork sandwich. Then I'm going to make you a little plate of chile colorado and chile verde, with our homemade flour tortillas. Then you know what I'd like to do? I'd like to give you my wife's special potato salad." He ended with a flourish, the spell was broken, and I stepped away from the counter.

Johnny and Bob returned from scouting out the brewery. They suggested we get our food to go and eat it on the patio. Although Rancho Nipomo had beer and a patio as well, it was not the Santa Maria Brewery's home brews. I was perusing the variety of sodas in the drink cooler (They had Mexican coca-cola made with cane sugar!), and goofing around with Patti when I noticed Bob standing at the counter ordering. I called over, "I already ordered for you!" He looked so crestfallen, I just said, "Never mind." So we ended up with a huge plate of ribs and two pulled pork sandwiches.

The owner, Richard, produced the sampler plate and we all gathered around, taking little bites. The pork chile verde was good, the tortilla was excellent, but the beef chile colorado kicked ass! There were layers of flavors, deep and complex, smoky and spicy...pure heaven.

By then, everyone's food was ready and we walked next door to The Santa Maria Brewing Company's patio where we found Ed worrying over Steve, who had just eaten the roasted jalapeno "garnish" on his plate and was in fits. Johnny immediately grabbed another jalapeno off of Steve's plate and chomped on it (See: "boy's pissing contests" in the previous post). Johnny agreed it was the hottest jalapeno he had ever tried, which was pretty impressive because Johnny grows prize-winning jalapenos. He also grows "ornamental" peppers that have almost put Bob in the emergency room.

The ribs were falling-off-the-bone tender and slathered in a sweet "16-spices" BBQ sauce. I was really interested in the pulled pork sandwich, topped with the traditional BBQ sauce and cole slaw. It was huge, and I was barely half-way through it before I remembered I had ordered the "Baby" sandwich. I asked Patti and Jeff about their sandwiches. Their full-sized sandwich filled an entire take-out carton. Instead of a hamburger bun, it was served on "teleta" bread, which is Spanish for "bigger than your head". The moist tri-tip sandwich, which contains a mountain of meat, was also served on the football-sized teleta bread. The potato salad was indeed a special recipe. Large chunks of potato were accompanied by bits of black olive and chunks of real dill pickle. It was damn good.

Just off the junction of the 101 and the166, Rancho Nipomo would be a convenient lunch stop when traveling down the coast. I will definitely be back for that chile colorado, and to try the Baja street-style hot dog ("Grilled all-beef frank wrapped with bacon, garnished with mustard, pickle, and grilled onions") and the tri-tip enchiladas.

The Santa Maria Brewing Company, which is in the same building as Rancho Nipomo, is owned and operated by Dan Hilker, a retired policeman. It is a labor of love. His hours are flexible, depending on his mood. These are the posted hours:

Wednesday and Thursday 4:00 PM till Approx. 9 PM, Friday 3:00 PM till about 10 PM Saturday and Sunday 12 PM - till about 8 PM

All of the beers are brewed by Dan himself. Don't ask for a Budweiser if you don't want to be kicked out on your ass. The decor is early Fred Sanford, a result of Dan trading beer to customers for random interesting items they bring in, 'That's worth about six beers. I'll take it." A bomb my brother brought in hangs from the ceiling. I have never asked Johnny if it is a real bomb, and it's probably better that I don't know. When we arrived with our take-out containers, the room was cool and dark, with just a few guys hanging out on the barstools. The back patio is bright and comfortable, but pretty dusty in the daylight. The only restroom I saw was a port-a-potty, so it may not be somewhere I want to do too much drinking. It's definitely a man's man's place.

I walked back inside to get a beer, and noticed all of the tap handles, which usually advertise the brand, had clay character's heads on them, or just random figures. I asked, "What do you have on draft? Pilot? Baseball player? Girl in a bikini?" Dan looked at me, sizing me up the way cops do when they are trying to decide if you are carrying a loaded weapon or under the influence of angel dust. He asked about my beer preferences, and recommended the India pale ale if I wanted "something like nothing you have ever tried before". I walked out back to the group on the patio with my Pilsner glass. Everyone else had pint glasses. Steve asked, "How come you got the cool glass?" (Because the bartender wanted to remember which one he spit in?)

The ale was interesting, with an undercurrent of indistinguishable spicy flavors. But the overall effect was not overwhelming. There is nothing worse than some weird novelty beer like pumpkin ale that only tastes like cinnamon. The spices were barely there, and the hops were strong enough to dominate. I also wanted to try the hefeweizen, and the blonde, but I had already gone on a political rant about the state of our social services after only one glass of ale, so I thought it was probably best to slow down. The rest of the crew headed off for wine tasting, and we returned to Johnny's to take a nap before dinner.

Rancho Nipomo 108 Cuyama Lane Nipomo CA 93444 (805) 925-3500

Santa Maria Brewing Company 112 Cuyama Lane Nipomo, CA 93444

http://www.santamariatimes.com/articles/2006/11/03/lifestyle/life54.txt

Annual "Find a Cure" Chicken Fundraiser http://www.ifopa.org/

Hey, Poke Way

I don't like sushi. I have always WANTED to like sushi. I have TRIED to like sushi. It is so sexy and glamorous. I feel like such a bumpkin when I have to admit to people that I don't like sushi. I have no aversion to the concept; I love the aesthetic. I've just always been overly sensitive to "fishiness". What other people call "briny" or "the taste of the sea" is overwhelmingly fishy to me. The "California Roll" does not solve my problem either, as I don't like sticky rice or nori. I do not like it in a box. I do not like it with a fox. But I don't mind going to sushi bars - they serve all kinds of other non-fish-related delicacies - tempura, gyoza, chicken, and if I'm lucky, some interesting noodles.

So Saturday night when my brother Johnny, and his wife Rene wanted to take us to their local sushi place in Nipomo, I was fine with it - it would make my husband very happy, and for me it meant tempura. We pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of a very unappealing-looking storefront with block letters simply spelling out SUSHI AND TERIYAKI. All of my bad restaurant warning bells were sounding. But Johnny is a fisherman, and knows fresh fish. My food obsession did not just occur in a vacuum - my entire family takes, shall we say, a "special" interest in food. Upon entering, the familiar interior design of the restaurant reassured me with lots of black wood and sparkling clean glass.

I was a little concerned when Johnny insisted on sitting at the sushi bar. I think it is impolite to sit at the sushi bar when I am not going to eat any sushi. Sure enough, after nibbling on my tempura and short ribs, I started to feel the pressure. Luckily, I have a few fall-back items - I know from experience that I can eat shrimp and unagi. I might not love them, but I will not have to spit them out. This particular restaurant also grated fresh wasabi for you at the table, and after eating a mouthful of that, the fish did not seem so daring. Of course, any time you get boys together around anything that is insanely spicy, high off the ground, or on fire, you are going to get a pissing contest. Here are the results of Bob and Johnny being in the same room with unlimited beer and wasabi:

This restaurant, a satellite of "California Sushi and Teriyaki" in Santa Maria, is known for its modern twists on traditional sushi. There were exciting things happening all around. Rene's order appeared, a gorgeous rattlesnake roll - Krab, avocado and jalapenos wrapped in wontons and deep-fried. It piqued everyone's interest and soon Rene was passing pieces over to complete strangers.

The sushi chef started in on some fantastical new creation, which he finished with a giant mountain of fried noodles. I said, "I don't know what that is, but I want one." I was pleased when he handed it over to Bob, and it turned out to be their "Cajun" something-or-other. By now I was freely, if not enthusiastically, eating bits of everyone's sushi. Curiosity always gets the best of me. The cajun thing was a spicy white fish dish with a delicate texture and a complex variety of flavors. Emboldened, I tried the spicy scallops. I can only describe them as slimy and difficult to swallow. Thank God sushi places have those gigantic beers!

One of the sushi chefs handed us a small plate, a little gift, a "lagniappe" of sorts. It was a tuna poke. He smiled and stood there expectantly. I had to eat it. In spite of just being freaked out by the slithering scallops, I had no other choice. I prepared myself to not make a face. The slices of ahi tuna were marinated in sesame oil, and sprinkled with both black and white sesame seeds. It wasn't bad, in fact it was - good. I liked it. I really liked it. I felt something pop between my teeth and peered into the little bowl - along with some chopped chives was a sprinkling of smelt roe. I hate smelt roe. I thought I hated smelt roe. But these things were great - I fished them out with my chopsticks, pop, pop, pop! I liked the tuna so much I thought maybe the poke was "cooked" with some citrus, like a ceviche.

I asked the chef, "Lemon?"
He said, "You guess WRONG."
Me: "Orange?"
Chef: You guess WRONG."
Me: Yuzu?"
Chef: You guess WRONG."
Me: Really? No yuzu?"
Chef: You guess WRONG."
Johnny: "What the f@%k is Yuzu?"

I noticed that one of the selections on the board was called "FOUND NEMO". I asked the sushi chef if it was clown fish, and he laughed with dark humor. Nipomo is such a small town that Johnny was constantly running into people he knew just about everywhere we went. His boss happened into the restaurant, and as Johnny was making introductions, I noticed our sushi chef surreptitiously squeezing lemons and oranges into a bowl. He passed the bowl off to the other sushi chef and I tried to watch its trip around the kitchen like a game of 3-card Monty. I pretended to listen to Johnny's boss, but I was going to find out whether there was citrus in that poke if it killed me. Kiki Maraschino, scourge of the strip mall sushi bar.

Things were winding down. We paid our bill and handed our sushi chef an extra tip. He motioned for us to stay put, and started twisting little bits of salmon into tiny roses. Johnny said, "He's making your Nemo for you." Another little lagniappe. Johnny whispered a menacing blow-by-blow in my ear, "Ewww, cream cheese...he's slathering it all over...ohh, God, not that gross white sauce... I'm not eating those green things. No way." By the time the chef proudly and generously handed me four perfect little rosettes of salmon with delicate daikon radish sprouts Johnny had managed to creep me out just like we were little kids again. There was no way I was eating that salmon. I had had one good sushi experience and I wasn't going to ruin it now. As the chef watched, I fed one to Bob. I tried to fob one off on Rene. She said, "I'm not having a lot of luck with food right now." I hissed, "He's watching. Eat it. You don't want to lose face." She said, "I'm going to lose my dinner if I eat that." When the chef was momentarily distracted, I leaned over Johnny and shoved another salmon rosette into Bob's mouth. The sushi chef caught me and I guiltily pretended to be snuggling Bob. While leaning across Johnny's lap. Did I mention that the beers there were really big? After much whispering and hissing between me and Johnny, we managed to distract the sushi chef long enough to shove the rest of the salmon into Bob before rushing off guiltily into the night.